


For The Dead Travel Fast

by darth_stitch



Series: Count Buckula's Guests [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, count buckula
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darth_stitch/pseuds/darth_stitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solicitor Natasha Romanoff and her cousin Steve Rogers are traveling to Transylvania, in order to help a certain old, eccentric Romanian aristocrat and his grandson make their move to London.  However, the journey can be dangerous... from snow and wolves and night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Dead Travel Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [The Blanket Fort](http://darthstitch.tumblr.com/post/119983166011/for-the-dead-travel-fast-walpurgisnacht-was-the)

**For the Dead Travel Fast**

_Walpurgisnacht_ was the _real_ reason why _Babushka_ was insistent that her darling Natashenka not travel alone to Transylvania.

It had nothing to do with her being a woman - certainly this brand new century was making even further strides towards recognizing the equality of the sexes, already begun more than a few generations back.   It also had nothing to do with the fact that Natasha Romanoff, called the Black Widow by her awestruck and admiring colleagues at SHIELD, was perfectly capable of delivering what the Director called “the wrath of the Almighty” upon any who thought her easy, vulnerable prey. 

Their journey would be taking more than a few days and they would be on the road on _Walpurgisnacht_.  It was simply common sense not to travel alone. 

And thus, Natasha had her fellow solicitor and favorite cousin Steven Rogers to accompany her.   
  
Despite all of _Babushka’s_ worrying, it was meant to be a fairly uneventful trip.  SHIELD’s latest client was one Prince Vlad Dracula, an old Transylvanian nobleman who had just bought some properties in London and was thinking of moving there, with his grandson.  The key words here were “rich” and “eccentric” and thus, Natasha would be handling all the paperwork and logistics involved in moving one apparently agoraphobic aristocrat and his hopefully not so eccentric grandson over to England.

Steve was happy to simply assist her on this one - he knew she would appreciate someone who wouldn’t be complaining about having a “mere woman” leading the way (read: _Grant Ward,_ who may or may have not had to claim that he “ran into a door” after Steve had a _little_ discussion with him regarding respect for one’s colleagues).

Fine, Steve might be all of five foot four and had to contend with a sickly childhood until he was brought to better health by a fussing _Babushka_ with her good borscht and other folk remedies _,_ but these days he packed a rather solid punch and there was nothing wrong with his aim.

They whiled away the hours of their trip with Steve’s journal - which was more of a sketchbook showing the places they had visited so far, with a few notes here and there.  And of course, Natasha could never resist teasing him over his lack of a sweetheart. 

“Perhaps we’ll finally find one for you on this journey and I’ll have tiny fluffy-haired nephews and nieces to cuddle, hmm, Stepushka?”

The evil woman, of course, timed her comment _exactly_ as Steve was about to swallow some of the good _mamaliga_ they were having for breakfast.

After he finally made sure he wasn’t choking to death, Steve wryly pointed out, “And how’s Mr. Barton doing these days, Nat?  Or that Dr. Banner?”

They’re cousins.  Which is why Steve is unaffected by Natasha’s Death Glare.

“And I am perfectly capable of being good friends with those two gentlemen, Stepushka - as you are with Peggy, yes?”

Point and match to her.  Peggy was, at this point in time, a sweet memory of his youth and he was still fortunate to have her in his life as a dear friend.  He simply smiled at his cousin and she threw up her hands at him in exasperation - she's claimed that she should be _immune_ to that expression by now, when she’s seen him wield it so many times to get out of trouble.  

The inn they were staying in was _picturesque_ in the best sense of the word and Steve had devoted more than a few moments to capturing it in his sketchbook, with the crawling vines dotted with tiny, almost star-shaped white flowers clinging to its walls.  _The Princess’ Tears_ was the local name and of course, their innkeeper was also something of a folklorist, knowing all the local legends.

He said that the flowers grew where an ancient _Princess_ wept, when she found out that her Prince had made a dreadful pact with the powers of darkness to save her and their son and their kingdom from the rampaging Turks.  To plant these blossoms was to invoke her protection and it was known that the _Undead_ would not step foot into a house where the flowers were, lest they incur the wrath of their Lord. 

There were other places of interest in the town they were staying in, such as the graveyard, which had some suitably impressive Gothic mausoleums.  As it was still daylight, Steve brought his sketchbook along.  Natasha told him she was going to be sensible and rest in their rooms with a good book.

“Try not to go looking for trouble, Stepushka - unless whoever it is _really_ deserves a bloody nose?”

He laughed.

The innkeeper’s wife fussed at him in a motherly fashion and was relieved to see that he had a crucifix around his neck.  “Good sir - remember that it is _Walpurgisnacht_ \- do try to return to us before dark.”

_Walpurgisnacht_.  Again.  But then wandering in a graveyard at night was not the most sensible of ideas - _Walpurgisnacht_ or no.  So it was an easy promise to make. 

So it must be clear that Steven Grant Rogers did not rush into this _blindly._   He had a good few hours of daylight left to explore.  He had his traveling coat on - he was still rather susceptible to the cold.  He had some bread, ham and cheese and a bottle of wine, packed for him by the innkeeper’s wife.  The sun had shone bright and clear and although there was a chill in the air, it was quite pleasant. 

The storm came with no warning whatsoever.

Between one moment where Steve was sketching out the rather mischievous-looking angel standing guard over one tomb - trying to capture the curve of his cheek just _so_ \- and the next - suddenly it grew dark. 

Immediately, Steve checked his pocket watch.  Surely he couldn’t have stayed here until sundown?

The time was quite accurate - he had a good two hours left. 

But the sky was dark.  The wind began to howl and it didn’t take long for the rain to fall. 

_Damn it_. 

There was no help for it.  Steve ran and sought shelter in one of the graveyard’s more imposing mausoleums.  Upon closer inspection, the structure only held one single sepulcher inside - white stone covered with strange figures.  Oddly enough, there was no cross or any other Christian symbol in this place. 

Steve read the inscription on the mausoleum’s door.

_Countess Dolingen of Gratz_

_In Styria_

_Sought and found Death  
_

_1801_

_God grant she lie still_

_For the Dead travel fast  
_

The tomb of a suicide.  And the figures on her sepulcher were not the expected heavenly carvings of angels and saints.  They were of creatures and _Things_ best left in the darkness, in the shadows, in the abyss.

_Walpurgisnacht._   Steve was no true Englishman, who scoffed at old legends and folk stories.  He was a product of his Irish and Russian roots, the grandson of _Baba Yaga_ and he knew, all too well, what it meant to be trapped in the tomb of a suicide on a night when the Devil threw open the gates of Hell and the Undead would rise from their graves to walk the earth. 

Outside, the rains and wind were joined by hail.  This was no natural storm. 

The iron stake, which should have been driven through the tomb, to keep the Countess trapped, was, in fact, on the floor.  Steve picked it up just as the stone lid opened, just as the Countess - pale and beautiful and unravaged by Death - sat up and smiled at him with her white, sharp teeth. 

He felt the sweet, seductive whispering tugging at his mind, cajoling him to come forward, to prostrate himself before her, his new Queen and Goddess, to offer up his veins for her delectation, to let her cold lips press against his skin…

Steve found himself smiling even as he drew out the crucifix around his neck, one that _Babushka_ had insisted he never take off while on this journey.  “Forgive me, madam.  I’m just a fellow from London and I’m not buying what you’re offering.”

He raised the iron stake and rushed at her, aiming for her heart. The Countess’ ghastly smile turned into a vicious snarl and she lashed out at him, sending him flying back against the wall. 

Steve’s last thought would have been, _Aw, hell.  Natasha’s not going to forgive me for this._

Except he found himself slowing down and instead of colliding against the unforgiving stone, he was caught and held against someone’s chest. 

All right, a distinctly _masculine_ chest.   If this was one of those bodice rippers Cousin Darcy was so fond of reading aloud to them - preferably while all of them were drunk and giggly - this was the appropriate time to _swoon_. 

Steve Rogers did _not_ swoon. 

Although his later memories of what happened next are oddly…. _blurred_ , he did remember the distinct impression of amused blue eyes gazing into his own.  He found himself leaning into the touch when he’s nuzzled, as if whoever it was had breathed in his scent.  

It’s strange, but he felt oddly _safe_ and _protected_ in that moment. 

There are soft words murmured into his ear, words in a language that he does not recognize.  And then:

_Sleep, fierce little kitten.  You will not come to harm._

In slightly accented English.

When Steve finally woke up, it was to his very worried cousin quickly checking him over for _certain_ wounds that would’ve sent their poor, long-suffering _Babushka_ into a dreadful protective rage.  

“I’m all right.  I’m fine, I swear - _Nat!”_

She gives him an unimpressed eyebrow.  “You went wandering around in a graveyard on _Walpurgisnacht_ and we found you unconscious in the tomb of a possible vampire, with a giant wolf either guarding you or deciding you were going to be _breakfast._   Forgive me if I don’t want to go home to _Babushka_ and tell her that her darling grandson’s been taken by a vampire!” 

“It was _broad_ daylight.  And the storm wasn’t a natural one.”

Still with the Look on her face.  This time, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m sorry?”

“Better.”  And then her arms were around him.  “Steve, you _scared_ me.”

“I know.  I’m sorry, all right?”  And then, he registered what she had just said.  _Wolf._   “Nat, where’s the wolf?”

“One of the soldiers here shot at the thing, drove it off.  His marksmanship skills need work but at least you’ve not been turned into a wolf’s chew toy.”

“Wait, what, _soldiers?”_

It turned out that their host, worrying over their safety, had asked for soldiers to be dispatched.  And it had been Steve’s sheer good fortune that they had turned up at the inn _exactly_ when that strange storm had broken out.  Natasha had been all for grabbing her own shotgun and setting out on her own but they were forced to wait it out until the storm had blown away. 

And thus, they had found an unconscious Steve with that enormous wolf practically on top of him, keeping him warm. 

“Almost as if it were _protecting_ him,” one of the other soldiers muttered, crossing himself. 

The captain of the troop scoffed at the notion.  Graciously, he offered to escort Steve and Natasha safely back to their inn.  “The _boyar_ would never forgive us if we did not see to your protection from this moment forward.”

_Bistritz_

_Be careful of my guests - their safety is most precious to me.  Should aught happen to them, or they be missed, spare nothing to find them and ensure their safety.  They are English and therefore adventurous.  There are often dangers from snow and wolves and night.  Lose not a moment if you suspect harm to them.  I answer you zeal with my fortune -_ Dracula

Steve had no choice but to submit to Natasha and the mistress of the inn’s fussing when they _both_ insisted that he rest for a while before they continued their journey.  So after a good meal and a warm bath, Steve finally managed to fall asleep. 

His dreams were filled with those amused blue eyes and that voice calling him _kitten_.  

Steve would have a great many things to say to that.  He was most certainly _not_ a kitten, thank you.

\- end (for now!) - 

**Author's Note:**

> This is really an adaptation of Bram Stoker’s short story _Dracula’s Guest_ , which is really an early kind of DVD extra to the novel _Dracula._ I couldn’t resist taking this for a Count Buckula spin. 
> 
> Um.  Yeah.  I think I need to write more in this ‘verse.  Because Bitty Floofy Steve and Cousin Nat still need to actually meet Count Buckula and his Grampy in person, right?


End file.
